AN: I had to rename Harry-Morgan as Harry-Mark.
I am grateful for every review, please keep them coming! You're the reason I'm still writing, despite my chaotic life. Similarly, lack of reviews is a reason I've stopped writing this.
xoxox
AN: This chapter features two people from the Criminal Minds universe, because Nightingale's The Housekeeper is what inspired me to start writing. Anything you need to know in order to understand my fic will be mentioned in my fic. I recommend against skipping the dialogue with the BAU; it contains character-relevant information.
As Not as Clever flirts with plot more than actually having one, you're probably here for the character exploration anyway. This is inherent in the nature of a story whose point of view/narrator is not the main character.
xoxox
Listening to Stormclouds
By some unspoken agreement, Potter avoided him for the rest of the week. It gave Severus some time to mull, to let his thoughts marinate. In the end, he decided he ought to get to know the man-boy all over again.
And this time, he was insisting on truths.
On Saturday Severus flooed to the Leaky Cauldron rather than to his usual alleyway—who knew what had happened in Soho since the attack last weekend.
He conjured a sling for his left arm, to avoid attracting attention for instantaneous healing. It was a balmy evening, well suited for a walk. He turned down Old Compton, passing by the sex shop, the fish-and-chips shop, the theatre—
And there she was, yellow caution taped across broken windows. Dried blood and soot. There was a police van parked in front, casting the familiar sign in alien blue.
He tried not to look suspicious as he walked past, though it was tempting to stare— everyone else was staring too. Blend in. Pretend you don't exist, and don't attract attention.
He breathed a sigh of relief when he passed. His feet carried him of their own accord, farther down to The Yard.
It seemed like three pubs worth of Saturday-night usuals had crammed themselves inside. Soundwise, if the Admiral Duncan was normally a chattering creek then this was standing under a waterfall. It felt like he was drowning; the air was so thick with smoke he could barely breathe, let alone see.
Was that Gramps, out in the back, waving?
It was a bit quieter there, though that wasn't saying much. But before Severus could turn to greet the others, Gramps was pulling him aside. "They found the man who set the first bomb, dead. Stabbed to death, Prince." He gave a meaningful look, as if Severus needed the emphasis. "Do you know where Mark was when the bomb exploded?"
Severus blanked his face. "He set off the fire alarm."
"And after? Prince, everyone the man has ever slept with knows he has a knife strapped to his calf. That makes up half the regulars. Can you give him an alibi?"
Could Severus lie convincingly? He'd been close to the explosion, so a he was right beside me wouldn't cut it—
His unintended grimace pretty much said it all.
"Oh bloody Hell," Gramps said, tugging at his hair. "Bloody buggering Hell."
"What's wrong?" Harold asked, approaching with several pints, and Mark in tow. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Mark was wearing an eyepatch, had kept his Potter-black ponytail and hair-quill. The breeches were hilariously close to Wizarding fashion, and had probably been purchased at Tatting's. The tricorn hat just made it look ridiculous.
"Not Mark. From now on, I shall be called Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow!" the man declared for all to hear—
—nobody paid him the slightest mind, barring Severus' indulgent eye-roll. A pirate, now? No wonder the man has so many names and identities.
And that face, with those eyes and that hair? Now that he knew, Severus couldn't not see the resemblance to Potter. It had been sheer obstinacy that had kept him from cottoning on earlier.
He listened to the friends greet each other and catch up; Gramps doing a remarkable job of pretending normalcy. Severus meanwhile nursed his pint while his mind raced with the implications. If Gramps had figured it out, who else could have? Who might have talked? He couldn't Confundus them all.
At the next table, someone laughed with the sound of a dying donkey.
Severus felt the mild muffling spell go up around them in the way the sensation of drowning diminished slightly. Casting magic in public, killing people—how had Mark made it this far, when he was too obviously daft to survive?
"...two more bombings since, people are scared. The bobbies have been surprisingly helpful...reaching out...a team of LGBT bobbies watching and taking statements...talk of compensation…" Gramps' voice babbled.
Somewhere in the room, someone dropped a glass—Severus heard it shatter, heard them cursing over spilled ale. He shifted his Occlumency, trying to partition a section of his mind to convince himself of the new truth. Mark had gone to pull the fire alarm, then stayed to help Severus get people out. Mark was turned towards the bomb when it exploded; something flew into his eye.
No, wait, that doesn't work. Severus couldn't have seen that, he'd been turned away himself.
He half-listened as Gramps' voice twisted in on itself, projecting an artificial nonchalance. "The first bomber, Copeland, was found dead...fancy team from across the pond...solve the murder and find the new bomber before.…Yeah, right now—Hey! Mark?"
The tricorn hat was vanishing through the throng.
"Where did he go?" Gramps and Harold seemed to finally remember Severus was there.
Do I have a sign on my head? Minder of Ridiculous Dunderheads? "What did you say that made him leave?"
Harold was ever-helpful. "That he looks stupid in the hat."
"Indeed. That must have done it." Severus pushed to his feet to follow—hopefully Mark was still nearby—this place was too crowded anyway.
"I told him about the detectives investigating the new bombings, and the murder," Gramps elaborated once the three of them had made their way out onto the street. "He might've gone to take a look."
"He was rather curious about the Americans," Harold added.
They matched Gramps' pace across the bricked pavement, regardless of Severus' wish to run. What idiocy might Mark have accomplished in ten minutes? Last week he had murdered a man, why was he drawing attention to himself?
They found him standing just short of the 'do not cross', staring hungrily at the two people picking their way through the debris. The Americans, apparently. Though, they looked just like normal people, albeit wearing shiny yellow hardhats and slightly crumpled suits. "Mark," Severus whispered, tugging urgently, "We have to go."
They were coming closer. Bugger it all. It was too late to leave now.
"Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," the white man in the black suit introduced himself.
Three rather poor poker faces swiveled to look at Mark—hadn't he gone by 'Hotch' before Severus had met him? Oh Gods, this was turning from bad to worse.
"And this is my colleague, Special Agent Derek Morgan. The London Metropolitan Police invited us to help find the person behind the bombings here."
The five of them stood in awkward silence—possible truths hung over them in shifting greyscale.
Severus couldn't help sizing the foreigners up. Hotchner was young, handsome and rather lanky. Morgan looked like he was staring down a bull, having every intention of winning the fight.
Gramps, wonderful Gramps, did not have their luxury of ineffectively standing around. "Anthony Clearwater, at your service. These are William Harold, Prince Nelson and Mark Evans."
If Mark would only stop looking at the Agent Hotchner like a starving man before a feast, this might actually have been an alright meeting. They could have shaken hands, turned around, and left.
"Would you mind answering some questions? The details on this one aren't clear yet. I'm assuming you were there?" Agent Morgan gestured towards Severus' and Mark's obvious injuries. "And I'm sure you all have ID—"
"If we're not under arrest, we'd rather not. Now, if you'll excuse us, we'll be on our way."
Thank you Harold. Yes, let's be on our way.
"Wait," Hotchner spoke, though Mark hadn't turned in the slightest. Severus knew, he'd been subtly tugging on the stubborn man's arm. "There's a list of names, we know you were there, Mister Nelson, Mister Evans. Will you at least share why you haven't made a statement?"
"We're not saying a thing without my lawyer present," Harold said.
"We were there," Mark talked over him. "But it's not safe for us to have our real names on that list. It's only a matter of time before there's a leak, our employers will find out, and we'll be out of our jobs. I can tell you I was at the bar, before Poddy called me over to show me the bag. I went to warn Prince and then pulled the fire alarm, to get people out."
"And then?"
Harold cleared his throat. "There were over a hundred people there, I'm sure at least one of them can corroborate that there was a bomb, and it exploded. Now, we really must be going." It was starting to rain.
"Thank you for making the trip across the pond for us," Mark said, and Severus was impressed he'd kept his voice so even. "You're doing this community a favour, and we won't forget it."
Apparently satisfied that he'd said his piece, Mark started to move away, they were finally retreating—
Only to have to stop and wait for Gramps, much slower in his getaway. Severus turned to see Special Agent Derek-staring-down-a-bull-Morgan was still talking with Gramps, handing over a card. The stranger then tried to take the handles of Gramps' wheelchair, prompting a glare of such fury that it sent the Americans fleeing instead.
Nothing made people quite as uncomfortable as a person with a disability managing just fine, thank you very much.
"We've been invited to lunch with them tomorrow," Gramps said as he caught up. "I suggest we stand them up. 'Let me help you,'" he scoffed. "Arsehole."
They continued back to the Yard, all preoccupied with their own thoughts.
"Mark, didn't you go by the name Hotchner back when?" Gramps voiced carefully.
"Hmm. I did, didn't I? It's a nice name."
"What Gramps means," Harold said firmly, "is that we'd very much like to know the story behind you and Mister Super Agent Hotchner over there."
Mark barked a mirthless laugh. "Special Agent. And are you sure you want to know?"
They stopped in front of The Yard, where Severus offered all of them cigarettes. Mark dragged on his gratefully and turned his face up into the rain, not joining them under the protective awning. They waited him out, knowing that Mark would only speak when he was ready to.
Watching him, Severus listened to the comforting murmur of their friends. He wanted to join in, remind them he was there—but he didn't know what to say, and he didn't trust himself. If he opened his mouth, something wrong might come out.
What did one say when everything exploded, and people turned out not to be who you believed them to be?
A liar—a killer.
While this was all terrible, it was far from the worst Severus had experienced. He'd grown up during the war: ideals aside, his world had been full of people bringing out the very worst in each other. Ending with green light—
—and green, lifeless eyes. Gods help him, but he'd sworn to protect Harry Potter, who was now threateningly close to catching a cold.
Now on his third cigarette and looking decidedly drowned, Mark turned back around, casting them into silence. "I loved the man once," he said softly, just audible above the pattering rain. "He was my world, and now I have to look him in the eyes knowing he doesn't remember me."
Harold coughed. "You're right, we didn't want to know. That's just depressing."
How could not knowing ever be better?
Severus found himself wondering what had happened in the timeline Potter had returned from, had he been aware of the bombing there? But he would have been in school, barely twelve—Potter couldn't have met his Agent Hotchner until much later.
What would Soho have looked like if Copeland hadn't already been killed? The man wouldn't then have attained the Neonazi version of Martyrdom. The other two explosions would never have happened. Soho might be a very different place.
The burdens of knowing the future! And yet, Severus couldn't fathom choosing not to learn an uncomfortable truth.
Nevertheless it was a terrible weight to have to bear: not only had Mark killed a man in an attempt to protect them, he had also created a situation that may well be worse.
Severus wanted to buy the man a gin and whisper to him, 'It's not your fault.'
He wanted to lean over and pull Mark under cover, cast a drying charm and ask him all his questions.
The rain continued to fall between them like a soggy curtain.
Nellie showed up from Gods knew where—probably sensing that Severus still had a last cigarette to give away. "Is that Mark? Dressed as a pirate? What's up with him—he looks like he's seen a ghost."
A ghost. As fitting an explanation as any, for a muggle. The young Agent Hotchner was somewhere between a distorted echo from Potter's past, and a possible future. What was a ghost if not a dead man, walking?
"Remember when Mark went by 'Hotch'? Well, we just met Mister Hotch." Gramps explained.
"He's American," Harold added dramatically, as if expecting this to be of interest.
"I can hear you, you know." Mark stepped forward looking decidedly drenched. Severus wanted to tuck the dark lock hanging in his face behind his ear. "And Nellie, we're having lunch tomorrow with the FBI."
They were? What had happened to going unnoticed?
"You're wet," Gramps announced.
"Yeah." The man sighed, finally wiping away the hair clinging to his forehead. In that moment he looked every bit as old as he'd claimed to be "C'mon, Gramps. Take me home?"
Was that wise? Shouldn't his apprentice be tucked back in his dorm room, rather than off gallivanting in Gramps' bed?
—but no, it was none of Severus' business what the man chose to do with himself.
Severus said his farewells and took his leave—rather that than be left behind. He walked into the grey night looking for a convenient door stoop to disapparate from, as the rain fell in yellow sheets under the lamplight.
xoxox
His wards woke him at three am on Sunday. Or rather, the lack of his wards woke him. Severus trampled into his living room to find Mark standing by the open door.
Didn't he have a statue guarding his rooms? What was the thing good for if it didn't even put up a fight?
"Sorry?" Mark offered.
Severus yanked him in by the sleeve of his knitted sweater, shoving the door shut and glaring at his Medusa guardian for good measure. Did she just shrug? For fuck's sake, she was meant to be a guardian, he had a password for a reason.
"You didn't answer when I knocked," Mark explained, settling himself onto the couch as Severus put the kettle on.
"Yes, when someone does not respond in the middle of the night, I also immediately begin to tear down their wards. What a logical, sound train of thought."
"Sorry," Mark repeated, hunching over. "I just really didn't want to be alone right now."
What could he possibly reply to that? Severus gave the tea his full focus, as if brewing the perfect cuppa weren't an art form he'd mastered long ago.
They sat across from each other.
"Did you know, in seven years I'd never heard Gramps' name—I thought it was Tony? I even warded his flat. And today when I checked the name was right there—has been this whole time, right by the doorbell. Can you imagine?"
Severus raised his brow in a way that he hoped conveyed, Really?
Mark's grin was wiped away by Severus' next words.
"That was Aaron Hotchner. Your Aaron."
The silence stretched, though not uncomfortably.
"Yeah."
"I do not think it is wise to meet with him tomorrow. Have you forgotten what happened on Beltane?"
"Hard to forget, when I can't fucking see anymore." Mark sighed heavily. "But I can't not see him. If you had the chance, wouldn't you?"
Lily's eyes looked at him with unwelcome understanding.
Severus found himself picturing his apprentice at his wedding to that Special Agent, surrounded by family and friends.
Or had he been alone, even then? The orphan, now back in time to raise himself all over again?
Which reminded him—Potter was supposed to have had a godfather at least. "What happened with Sirius Black last year? Lucius was apoplectic."
Mark laughed, the sound hollow. "I knew he was innocent of betraying the Potters, so I got him a trial last year. Lucius helped me keep it all hushed up."
Oh. Somehow, Severus had never considered that Black wasn't capable of murder. Though the whole Sirius Black fiasco had stunk of a cover up from the beginning.
"Turns out he was guilty of murdering thirteen Muggles," Mark continued bitterly. "So that's a year in Azkaban per, and two more years for being an illegal animagus. There went my chances of having a godfather."
"Oh." Severus wished he could say something helpful, or express any kind of regret.
The truth was, Sirius Black had been a danger to himself and to others, and Severus very near hated him. "Perhaps it is better this way."
He hadn't meant to say that aloud.
But it had startled a genuine laugh from Mark, so he counted it as a partial success. "Thanks, Snape. I'm aware there's no love lost between you. It just makes my 'Harry Potter' identity harder to keep safe. And, well, he was kind to me, for the short time I knew him. A shitty parental figure, granted, but better than everyone else I had."
Severus wanted to sidle away, crab-like, to his rooms.
He also wanted to unravel Mark's mysteries, figure out what had shaped him, what motivated him—
What buttons to push, and which to avoid.
At the same time, he suspected it was not a story he wanted to hear, least of all in such a matter-of-fact tone.
Severus wasn't a bitter person, not really. Though he knew he wasn't a happy person either.
He knew he had enjoyed killing his own father, despite it having been the final push that had sent him into the Dark Lord's service.
And as things were, Severus didn't think he could ever have such forgiveness for anyone—not even his students with their exploding cauldrons.
"You don't need to sit up with me, Snape," Mark was saying. "I'm just not ready to face my dormitory, and Gramps was being too...nice."
A Tempus revealed it to be half four—too early to be up, and far too late to be having any sort of meaningful conversation. With a firm, "Good night, Mark," he returned to his bed.
Not before throwing up some silencing spells, though.
xoxox
As they made their way to Gramps' flat the next day, Severus couldn't stop thinking that they shouldn't be doing this. Mark had even admitted as much over breakfast.
Like a niffler diving into mercury, though, there was no way Mark wasn't going to go to see his Agent Hotchner again. The least they could do was accompany him to minimise damage.
Nellie and Harold were assembled on Gramps' couch wearing grim expressions; it looked like they were about to stage the intervention Mark needed to convince him not to go.
"Alright then, cab's waiting," Gramps announced with legitimate cheer.
Severus groaned aloud. By the time the ride was over he had put the finishing touches on his list of twenty reasons this was a very bad idea.
"Alright, remember Mark, you keep your mouth shut. Let me and Harold do the talking." Gramps shot him a poignant look. "And try not to stare quite so creepily."
It was hilarious that Gramps actually thought he was in control of the situation.
The greetings went well, with Mark's face schooled a careful neutral. They ordered, there was general discussion of the bombings' aftermath and the changes in Soho. The two-man BAU announced triumphantly that they had found their so-called 'unsub' just that morning in the act of planting his third explosive. With no more leads on the killer of the first bomber, some Nazi called Copeland, they were packing their bags to head home that night.
Then Mark opened his mouth. Severus sighed. The muggles were done, they should have been safe now, and yet—
Mark couldn't just let it lie. Was there no other way to prolong this conversation without mentioning death?
"Those few bars are supposed to be our safe space. It's not right, what they did."
There were some murmurs of general assent, and Mark had exactly what he wanted: his Agent Hotchner's careful attention.
"Copeland's death wasn't right either," Agent Morgan objected. "He should have had a trial before a jury of his peers."
"Oh? Whose peers? Fellow neo-nazi bomb-builders, or a room full of us queers?" Mark shook his head. "No, it's better this way, with him dead. To the police, we're not real men. How can we be victims of crime, if we like to take it up the arse? You must understand, Special Agents, that we have to protect our own."
That was condoning murder, aloud, to the authorities searching for a murderer! The plan not to appear suspicious thudded like a fly against a window pane. Severus mentally sent a prayer for Loki to silver their tongues so that they might talk their way out of this mess.
"So you support murdering people you disagree with? Is there something you'd like to confess?" Agent Morgan jumped in. The rest of the mess Mark had mentioned, he carefully ignored; it wouldn't do to acknowledge how this truth made him uncomfortable.
Mark laughed, eyes slightly mad. "You're the experts. Profile us, tell me if I did it."
Severus retreated behind his Occlumency, before he did something embarrassing like put his head in his hands or shatter a glass with accidental magic.
"Mister Anthony Clearwater is obviously the leader of your little group," the Agent Hotchner began evenly, "he tends to nurture you all. Mister Nellie Duggal here has some history with drug use, Mister William Harold is estranged from his family. Mister Prince Nelson, obviously not the name his mother gave him—"
He felt Mark's flinch from where their legs were touching, echoing Severus' own cringe. Why was he putting up with this, again? Oh yes, because he was friends with a complete tosser.
"—works with his hands, jewellery or clocks perhaps. He really doesn't want to be here, leading me to believe his presence is only on your behalf."
The Special Agent Hotchner raised his brows. "How am I doing so far?"
All of them wanted whatever strangeness was sparking between Mark and his Agent to run its course and leave the rest of them out of it, thanks.
Oblivious, Mark gestured for the man to go on.
"And you, Mister Mark Evans, look at me like you know me, though I could swear we've never met. You carry yourself with confidence and are unafraid of confrontation. If not for your authority issues I'd say you had experience with the military. In any case, I wouldn't be surprised to learn you carry a weapon, likely a bladed one."
Mark actually nodded—rather than the more appropriate reaction of oh shit.
"Mind if I eyeball it? I mean, take a look—I mean—" Agent Morgan withdrew his eager hand, mortified at his words to the half-blind man.
With far too little common sense, Mark unsheathed a thin dagger, holding it up for all to see.
"Bollocks, Mark. Have you no sense at all?" Nellie summarised what all of them were thinking.
A passing waiter gave their table a very large berth.
"This is too thin to be the knife that killed Copeland." Agent Morgan said, as if there was any doubt that Mark would display his used murder weapon to the American authorities.
Of course, that didn't stop him from handing the knife to his favourite Agent. "Don't cut yourself," he said, with far too much warmth.
The Agent Hotchner passed it on to his colleague, then rubbed his hand where Mark had evidently brushed it. "Would you like to tell me when you think we met?" He sounded honestly curious, nowhere near as suspicious as he ought to be for this exchange of daggers in a restaurant over crumpets, and tea.
While their souls were laid bare by two men having some combination of a lover's spat and a pissing contest.
"We lived near you, when I was young," Mark began, his smile bittersweet. Severus didn't know if Mark was glad to be able to tell his old lover this, or struggling to find the right words. "When our chickens' eggs went missing and I got blamed, I stayed up all night—and imagine my surprise when I saw you."
There was something pensieve in the Agent Hotchner's eyes...was that recognition? If Severus didn't know for a fact that this was pure fiction, he'd be believing it too.
Another lie in the web that made up his apprentice.
"I saw you, with your long sleeves in summertime and your mother always wearing a shawl over her yellow sundress."
Severus looked away, burning to give the Agent his privacy as his deepest childhood pains were stripped and hung to dry. He itched to spell Mark silent, spell this situation over. Mostly, he itched to leave, but the spy in him had been nurtured too well. He sat, listened, watched the Agent Hotchner's face turn to stone.
Mark wasn't listening at all, lost spinning a tale that was entirely lies, but also resonated with truth. "I reckoned you needed those eggs, and anyway my uncle'd find something else to punish me for. I'm glad I did—you've done well for yourself, FBI SSA Aaron Hotchner."
"Just one 'S', for 'Special Agent'," Agent Morgan corrected, arms crossed and wearing a tolerant smile.
Mark shrugged, eyes elsewhere.
Severus shouldn't be surprised that, at his most vulnerable, Mark's first instinct had been to spin a tale. A compelling one, that shifted blame and distracted by scraping open old wounds and causing entirely unnecessary grief.
Thank you, Loki Silvertongue, Severus thought, gut twisting in sympathy and just wanting this meeting to be over. You can stop now. Just—let him stop.
Beside him, Gramps was furrowing his brow in thought. "I didn't know that, and we've known each other for...what, five years now? All this time, with you whispering everyone else's stories in my ear, and you never told me yours?"
Mark returned a wan smile. "You don't get good at reading people unless you have to."
"You fancy yourself a profiler too?" Agent Morgan said, scowling. "I'm sorry if I don't believe you, just because you can prod at some old memories."
He should not have said that. Mark was a Slytherin, but there was a lion buried underneath it. Even with everything Severus didn't know about Mark and Potter—he did know the man was proud.
Mark scrutinised Morgan, and in any other context the sweeping look would have been flirtatious. As it was though, it loomed with malice.
They had front row seats to Mark talking his way out of the frying pan and right back into the pot.
"You, Agent Morgan, are the embodiment of the phrase, 'It takes a village to raise a child.' Even so, you had to use your fists as well as your mind. But that's fine if you're on the 'right' side, so they gave you a badge rather than a prison cell."
Do go on, Mark. Antagonise the man accusing you of murder. Brilliant. He could see Morgan's hands were turning white with the force of his grip. Severus was glad the man had already handed back the knife.
Mark's voice softened and hardened simultaneously, like a non-newtonian fluid. "You and Harold and I could trade stories, if we wanted to, about what happens when the wrong kind of people are allowed to watch children."
"I categorically refuse." Harold stood, looking every bit as upset as he should be. "Come on, Nellie, let's leave this bunch to their moronic psychobabble. None of this profiling tosh is admissible in court anyway."
Nellie nodded, his usually warm face blank. "Right, then. Bye, all. Nice chat, but as Harold said, we have...a...a thing."
Severus watched them leave, not bothering to hide his longing to follow them. Mark had no right to put them through this. They'd come to support him as he made the mistake of seeing his Agent again. They hadn't come to be whipping boys.
But just as Mark was cunning and proud, Severus was loyal to a fault.
The Agent Hotchner seemed well aware of the trembling fury in his colleague, and had either more sense or a better poker face.
"Right," he said, clearing his throat. Twice. "Thank you, that will be all—unless you have anything else to share about the Copeland murder. Someone suspicious in the bar that night? Anybody who ran away?"
Mark snorted, incredulity in the line of his brows. "Who wasn't running away? It was a mess of smoke and blood and screaming. The bomber was gone before we even realized there was a bomb, and now he's dead, and you've caught the new bomber too—thank you for that, by the way. I owe you one."
"We don't need anything from you. This is our job," Agent Morgan protested, mulish. "Unless you'd like to confess to that murder."
Mark almost laughed, as if he hadn't been present for any of the entire conversation. "A rain cheque then, indefinitely. I have a lot of strings I can pull for you, and I hope, someday, we might meet again on better terms."
"You still haven't said if you lot think Mark did...it." Gramps finally spoke. "Because you surely have bags to pack, and my friends and I need to have a talk. What have you decided? Can we leave now?"
"I think..." Agent Morgan began slowly, body finally unfolding again as he slipped back into things he was comfortable discussing, "I think, Mister Evans, that you'd like to have done it—as you said, anything to protect your community. You have the means, and if you had the opportunity I suspect you might have at least wounded the man."
"However," the Agent Hotchner took over, "we have records from the London Metropolitan Police that a man of your name and description was admitted to Saint Bartholomew's after being pulled out of the wreckage by a Constable Jordan. She distinctly remembers you, as you were protesting that she should help the others even when you were about to bleed out."
Now Severus knew why Mark hadn't glamoured his hair in his new Pirate Sparrow identity.
And, by all the Gods, could Mark not have told them beforehand that he'd Confundused the bobby?
"Your other friends both have alibis, Mister Evans, except for Mister Prince Nelson here. But, throughout this conversation, he has only been worried for you. So yes, you may leave." He swallowed once, and let his manners take over. "Thank you for agreeing to meet, and talk. This has been a most—enlightening conversation."
They nodded, stood, did not shake hands as they said their goodbyes.
"Congratulations," Mark's Agent Hotchner threw in as an afterword. "You managed to convince your friend that you're a murderer."
Yeah, yeah he had.
He was a murderer.
They were letting him get away with it. Had worried for him. Tried very hard to make sure he didn't get caught.
Together with his two friends, Severus walked scowling into the uncharacteristically sunny day. Somehow this didn't feel like the victory it should have been.
xoxox
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